


a bullet in his clenched right hand

by tenderlybarnes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Slow Burn, Winter Soldier AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderlybarnes/pseuds/tenderlybarnes
Summary: In 2014, Steve Rogers, with the help of Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Sharon Carter, and Nick Fury, toppled SHIELD after discovering the agency was riddled with HYDRA agents. During this time, Rogers discovered that his childhood best friend, Bucky Barnes, was alive. Barnes, presumed dead after a train fall in World War II, had been brainwashed, tortured, and turned into a HYDRA super soldier, dubbed The Winter Soldier. Rogers was able to save Barnes and help him along the road to recovery.But there was another asset HYDRA had. Only this one was forgotten. Codename: the Punisher.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this prologue opens with a scene that happens later than the start of the story. That first bit, involving Steve & co is a flashforward. The second scene is a flashback. This story will have some slightly nonlinear moments but nothing extreme; these will mostly occur in Frank's POV. Enjoy!

“This is the third base we’ve been late to,” Natasha remarked as she and Steve stepped in the entryway of the compound.

Steve kicked the body of a HYDRA agent. “Fuck!”

Sam’s voice crackled over their earpieces. “Did Captain America just say _fuck_?”

“He’s said worse,” Natasha smirked.

“Guys, can we focus?” Sharon said. She had landed the quinjet on the roof of the compound. “Wilson and I are still going to converge from the back and we’ll meet up in the middle of the compound as planned. There could still be stragglers. Stay sharp.”

“She’s right,” Natasha said and adjusted her cuffs. “Come on, Rogers.”

The base was silent except for the hum and flicker of lights and air conditioners. Steve clenched his jaw as they picked their way through the base.

They found themselves together in a central command room. Rows upon rows of computer banks filled the space. One wall was composed entirely of large screens.

Nat tilled her head at the computers. “Let’s get to work, Carter.”

Sam sidled up to Steve. He took his hand and squeezed gently. Steve looked over to him.

“You with me, man?” Sam asked.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just— just frustrated.”

“I know,” Sam said. “But let’s consider the upsides. Whoever is doing this is saving us a helluva lot of grunt work involved with taking these guys in. We’re just left with the info—”

“Shit,” Steve breathed. “ _Sam_. Shit.”

Natasha and Sharon looked up from their computers. Sam cocked his head to the side, then his eyes widened.

“We aren’t dealing with a HYDRA cleanup crew,” he said.

Steve shook his head. “These killings— they’re efficient but _brutal_. This is…this is _vengeance_.”

“You don’t think…” Sharon’s voice trailed off.

Steve looked between them all. “Yeah. _Shit_.”

****

He remembered the cold the most. Always cold. Cold in the rooms. Cold on the tables. Cold in the chamber—

But before, it was only heat. Heat and humidity and the air so heavy it felt like a lead weight in his lungs. The mud stuck in his nose and his mouth and the _heat_ and the choking air and he was screaming because it was wrong, it was all wrong, and they were surrounded and—

_“Fuck, get down, Russo!”_

—and that was Billy there, he was yelling for Billy, but it was so damn _loud_ that it didn’t matter, didn’t make a difference. Dirt and mud and underbrush flying up everywhere as the bombs went off, as his men wailed around him. Sobs so loud his bones shook and his leg was twisted underneath him, twisted up all wrong, and his ears were ringing, sharp and high pitched.

 _Gunshots_.

_“Russo!”_

_Gunshots._

Boots stepping into his line of sight. The tips of them so close to his cheek. His fingers twitched, wanted to grab his gun, his knife, anything but then—

—searing pain in all parts of him kept him frozen—

—someone crouching down to look closer at him, blurry and unfocused in the haze, a hand touched his cheek.

“This one,” a voice said. “This one’ll do nicely.”

And it was out of the heat and into the cold, always the cold.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Punisher wakes up. Karen Page finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could call this the "true" start of the story, since the prologue opened with a flashforward. This will ultimately be a lot of slowburn to get to the end. Not totally sure how many chapters this will end up being but it'll be several.

He woke up in the mud. Waterlogged and dizzy. Forgotten and forgetting and alone. The afternoon sun burned on his face. His tongue was thick in his mouth, dried and rough like sandpaper.

He tried to sit up and felt a burning pain in his side. He fell back into the mud.

Mud and heat again. He was in the mud and heat again.

He panted and tried to focus. There was a blaring and beeping coming from _somewhere_. Mechanical and artificial. This was not the same mud and heat from The Before.

There was a river running over his feet, the water high enough to slosh into his boots. It was churning and frothy, filled with debris and wreckage. It stretched in either direction and on the other side of it were buildings. He craned his head back and saw trees behind him.

 _Potomac_ , he thought. _Washington._

A mission. There had been a mission.

He groaned as his side flared with pain once more. Finally, he looked down to see a twisted piece of shrapnel impaled through him.

He had to take it out if he wanted to move. His hands fumbled as he unbuckled the sides of his tac vest and pulled it away from the wound. He felt along the front of the vest and found one of his smaller knives. Gripping the hem of his shirt, he sliced the bloodied fabric free and tore strips for a binding.

Now the worst part. But he had felt worse.

He braced his elbows against the ground and took hold of the shrapnel. One hard yank should rip it free.

_Breathe. Breathe. Go._

The shrapnel stuck. He choked back a scream. The tip underneath him was hooked slightly. He’d have to take it at an angle. Tilt it slightly to the left.

 _Breathe. Breathe. Again_.

The metal ripped free and so did his scream. His throat felt raw as if he had swallowed fire. He flung the shrapnel aside. Now, bind the wound. Temporarily. They’d fix him when he got back. They always do.

He rocked upright into a sitting position and felt his stomach roil. He heaved out bile onto the dirt between his legs. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and grabbed the strips of his shirt. He wadded one up to pack against the wound and quickly knotted the rest together before wrapping it tightly around his abdomen. He rebuckled his tac vest and winced at the additional pressure against his wound.

There were no agents at his location yet. Now that he was upright he could better scan his surroundings. There were distant voices and garbled radio chatter so someone was close.

But they were never this noisy.

These weren’t people who were coming for _him_.

It was always preferred for him to stay put for extraction but they could find him wherever he went. There were certain safety locations, signals, undercover agents who might spot him. He just had to find a street, just one, to orient himself and then he should be able to stick to the trees and find his way to safety.

****

Karen Page was running late.

Well, not late, per se, but certainly in a hurry. Her head was tucked down, doing her best to follow the map on her phone, as she swiftly derailed from her intended route. There was no time for a cab. Traffic was far too congested anyways.

She had come to DC to attend a journalism conference. It was a three-day event, stretching from Friday morning to late Sunday afternoon. She had been headed to a Saturday morning session when the explosions happened. Plumes of smoke rose from the Potomac. Traffic seemed to come to an immediate standstill as roads were blocked off for emergency personnel. Making quick work to contact her journalistic cohorts, Karen found rumors of an immediate emergency press conference on the steps of the Capitol Building. She had practically flung herself out of the cab, tossing a $20 to the driver, and sprinted to the sidewalk.

Karen glanced up to check the street sign at the intersection and narrowly missed crashing into a man.

“Sorry,” she said quickly before doing a double-take. This was not a man who should have been wandering the streets of DC.

 _Disheveled_ was too light of a word to describe how he looked. He was a disaster, a wreck—mud and blood caked over his body, an eye blackened and swollen shut, a busted lip. He clutched his side where a makeshift bandage covered a wound that was dripping blood between his fingers. He stared at her, his one good eye slightly glassy and unfocused.

“Did they send you?” He asked.

Karen startled. “Who?”

He grimaced. “Cut off one head—”

The man staggered and Karen tentatively reached out a hand to steady him before she stopped herself.

“I’m sorry, I don’t— look, I’m going to call— I’m going to get you some help alright?” Karen assured him. She fumbled with her phone, dialed, and held it to her ear.

The man reached out a hand to her and for a moment she glimpsed _fear_ , a deep and unending _fear_ , in his open eye, before he mumbled, “Cut off—”

He collapsed onto the concrete as Karen heard the operator’s voice.

****

Sometimes, he remembered The Before. They had a protocol for that, for when either of them remembered The Before.

It was _bright lights, white coats, snap of gloves_ —

He could hear them all around him now, the hushed murmurs and hurried movements.

Sometimes, they would try to ask each other, in their own broken and stilted ways, what they remembered of The Before. There were fragments whispered of _the carousel_ and _Coney Island in the spring_ and… and… and…

_“Prep him to be wiped again.”_

And then those fragments were gone, gone, gone until something woke up inside them again. Some fractured, broken thing that just wouldn’t die.

It would easier if it did. It would be easier if he did. It hurt every time, every wipe.

“We’ve got to restrain him,” a voice said.

He didn’t realize he had started to thrash around. He was able to _move_ , in jerky halted motions, but _move_. The lights were dizzyingly bright above him as he trashed. God it was so _bright—_

_“Shit, Billy, cover your eyes!”_

_“Don’t worry about me—”_

_There was a name there, a name, a name._

_“—get your own ass down in the dirt!”_

_It is raining earth on them._

There were grunts from the voices around him as they wrestled his limbs into restraints. Something was affixed to his face and he felt a whoosh of cold air against his hot skin.

When he opened his eyes again, it was quiet.

He was propped up in a narrow bed. It was cold, a thin blanket and sheet covering him. The walls were a soft, muted shade of blue. He was surrounded by monitors and machines, practically swathed in them. They hummed gently, barely noticeable, screens flickering with his heartbeat. His eyes traveled the room before they landed on her, sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

She was asleep, her head tilted back and rolled over on her shoulder. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her mouth parted slightly as she breathed steadily.

He tried to remember if he knew her. He remembered saying the words— _“cut off one head”_ — unable to finish, waiting for her to say them and she… didn’t.

He didn’t know how long he watched her. He wasn’t sure if he drifted in and out but he must have, because when he opened his eyes again the room was brighter and she was awake.

“Hi,” she said softly.

He squinted. His body felt heavy. His gaze flicked to the lights. “Off.”

“Pardon?” She asked, then realized. “The lights?”

He nodded roughly. “Off.”

She stood and went to the wall. “I’ll dim them, but I don’t want to turn them off, okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

He didn’t feel any less heavy in the semi-darkness. The woman sat back down in her chair.

After a beat of silence, she asked, “Should I get the doctor?”

“Who,” he said and paused. Closed his eyes and sighed.

“The doctor?” She repeated.

“No,” he said. “Who are you?”

He opened his eyes again and turned to face her. Her gaze was locked on his. He could see her deciding what to tell him. A muscle ticked in her jaw and she chewed her lip.

“As far as the hospital knows, I’m your fiancé,” she said. “Karen Page.”

He stared blankly. He was in a hospital. They never took him to a hospital. This woman… _Karen Page_ … wasn’t an agent at all.

So then who the hell was she?


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve recovers. Karen tries to figure out what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this timeline, Sam and Steve met awhile before the events of TWS and have been in an established relationship for a bit.

Steve felt like he had been hit by a truck. A very fast, very heavy truck. Repeatedly.

He cracked his eyes open and winced slightly at the harshness of the hospital lights overhead. He was surrounded by so many pillows and blankets it almost felt as though he were lying on a cloud. It would’ve been nice, if he hadn’t been so acutely aware of every single fracture and bruise that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

He glanced around and saw Sam seated by his bed. His head was titled down, focused intently on the book in his lap that he held open with one hand. Steve felt the soft press of Sam’s hand in his, Sam’s thumb gently tracing across the back of his hand, and smiled.

“On your left,” he whispered hoarsely.

Sam looked up and Steve gave him the best shit-eating smirk that he could manage with the stitches in his cheek. Sam let out a bark of laughter.

“You look like shit, Rogers,” he said.

Steve shrugged. “This ain’t nothing compared to a back-alley fight.”

Sam squeezed his hand. “I am glad you’re alright, you insufferable asshole.”

“Love you too, Wilson,” Steve replied. He pointed to the water pitcher on the side table, suddenly aware of just how thirsty he was. “Be a doll and grab that please?”

Sam cut him a look before marking his place in his book and rising from his chair. He gave Steve a quick kiss on the forehead and crossed the room to the table. He poured water into a paper cup and asked, “Would you like any of this food too? I already ate the best bits that they brought up.”

Steve had to laugh at that, even though it hurt. “Course you did. But yeah I’ll eat. Is that a peanut butter and jelly?”

“Yep,” Sam said, grabbing the sandwich. He situated himself on the edge of Steve’s bed and held out the cup to him. Steve took it gratefully and chugged half of it as Sam unwrapped the sandwich from it’s clear plastic. “Oh thank god. It’s strawberry jelly. I don’t know how you stand to eat that stuff but at least I don’t have to bother the staff for a replacement.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I would’ve eaten grape jelly, Sam. It’s just that strawberry is _superior_.”

Sam passed him the sandwich and took the cup from him. “I think they’ll have to strip you of the Captain America mantle for such a blasphemous statement.”

Steve swallowed thickly around the peanut butter in his mouth and stuck his tongue out at Sam.

“Careful, sweetheart. Your face will get stuck like that,” Sam quipped. He pushed Steve over and settled down on the bed next to him, stretched out on his side. He lazily slung an arm across Steve’s waist and held his hip.

“So,” Steve said after a beat. “How are… things?”

He could tell Sam was trying to keep his voice light as he answered, “Which things? The part where we exposed a deep-rooted conspiracy and Hydra’s infiltration of SHIELD and the government? Those things are good. Nat’s doing damage control at the Capitol right now.”

“I should probably make a statement,” Steve said.

“I think the helicarriers in the Potomac are enough of a statement,” Sam pointed out. “Besides, I wouldn’t put you in front of any cameras until your pretty face is all healed up.”

“Your flattery is, as always, impeccable,” Steve remarked.

Sam gave his hip a squeeze. “But the other things. I know you’re nervous to ask. It’s okay.”

“Is Bucky…” Steve hesitated. “Is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “He sat beside you until we found you. He actually got a little freaked out when Natasha tried to check your vitals. Took us a minute to convince him we were on your side. I think he was just so unsure of everything. His whole world had been upended in a matter of minutes.”

Steve was quiet, so Sam continued. “He’s not the same man he once was, Steve. I don’t say that cruelly, okay? He’s going to need a lot of time and a lot of help. Hydra… really fucked him over.”

“That your professional opinion?” Steve said. He didn’t yet know how to process everything, to deal with the whirlwind inside him.

Sam caught his attempt at levity. “Well, they haven’t let me _personally_ assess him, but yeah. And I do hope I get to talk to him, Steve. Help him. Working with vets was, ya know, my whole deal before I got pulled into _your_ nonsense. I think it’d be helpful for him to have a friendly face while we find him a therapist and psychiatrist that are the right fit for him. Might make him feel more reassured about the process. Eventually, when he feels stable enough for it, group therapy would be a good thing for him. Build up a community.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice suddenly strained with the tears that threatened to choke him. God, Sam Wilson was just so _good_ and he was _Steve’s_ and Steve was _his_. The kindness of the man next to him never failed to take Steve’ breath away. “I really appreciate that, Sam.”

Steve finished the last of his sandwich and snuggled down with Sam. Sam reached over and clicked on his iPod in its stereo on the bedside table. As the sound of Marvin Gaye filled the room, Sam pressed his face down against Steve’s chest. “You scared the shit out of me, you know. Don’t do that again.”

Steve ran a hand up and down Sam’s back and placed a kiss on top of his head. “I know. I’m sorry. I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too,” Sam whispered.

****

"What's your name?" The woman asked. _Karen Page_ asked.

_Karen_. He moved the name around in his mouth without speaking. Felt the way his tongue would roll and flex if he said it.

"What's that?" she said. She was leaning forward a bit, her elbows on her knees. Interested in what he had to say.

But what was he supposed to say? He stared at her. A _name._

They called him Soldier. They called him Asset. They called him...

_"Send in the Punisher for cleanup."_

_"Add Punisher to the op."_

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Karen appraised him, but her gaze was soft. "You don't remember."

"No," he said, cautious now. What if all of this was designed to test him? To see what he remembered or not?

But she wasn’t an agent. She had taken him to the hospital. She didn't seem like she knew anything. 

Which meant he should get out of there and find a handler. A real one. And yet… he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here with Karen Page, who had gotten him help when she didn’t know him.

“Why?” He said. “Why did you help me?”

She looked startled by this question and stammered out, “Because it was the right thing to do.”

He made a soft _“huh”_ sound and frowned. “Where are my things?”

“They took them,” Karen said. “The doctors, I mean. They had to cut you out of some of it. None of it could be salvaged.” She reached underneath her chair and produced a plastic grocery bag. “But I went out while you were sleeping and found some I think might fit you. It’s not much but…”

Her voice trailed off as she unpacked the bag and laid the contents on the end of the bed. A pair of sweatpants, an I LOVE DC hoodie, a pack of socks, and a pair of cheap slip-on shoes.

“I wasn’t sure about sizes but I did my best,” Karen said. “They might be too big. I can step out and get a nurse if you want to get changed?”

“Okay,” he said.

She paused at the door and said, over her shoulder, “I told them your name was Pete. Just in case they say that.”

****

Karen leaned against the wall beside the door to Pete’s room. An older, motherly nurse had bustled in when she summoned help and patted Karen on the shoulder as she sent her out of the room.

She was, as Foggy put it so eloquently when she’d called him earlier, digging into some deep shit right now. She didn’t know who Pete was or how he’d turned up in the streets of DC half beaten to hell.

Or what he’d be jabbering about, _“cut off one head…”_

When she’d had to explain his wounds— and his _gear_ — to the hospital staff, she’d told them he had been a responder to the scene at the Potomac. It was a believable enough lie and they didn’t question her further, especially given all the other patients that needed care and the general panic incited by the catastrophe unfolding around them.

She clutched her phone in her hand and briefly considered calling Foggy and Matt again. She wasn’t sure what to do with Pete once his hospital stay was up. He couldn’t remember anything about himself. She couldn’t just leave him to fumble around and find his way but the other possibility… taking him back to New York with her… ? Well, Foggy was certainly right. She’d gotten herself into some deep shit.

Karen glanced up from her phone in time to see a security guard pass by her. He cut a sharp glance at the door to Pete’s room before narrowing his gaze at her before moving on. Karen sucked in a breath and flinched as the door swung open.

“Alright, hon, he’s all set,” the nurse said. She patted Karen’s arm as she headed away. “You just call if you need help with anything else.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Karen said and ducked back into the room.

Pete was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking— Karen thought— unfairly cozy in the loose sweats and hoodie. She pressed the door shut with her back to it. She peered out of the window, watching the hall beyond, as the same security guard passed by once more. She could tell he noted her absence from beside the door by the way one eyebrow quirked up. He took hold of the walkie talkie affixed to his shoulder and tilted his head to murmur into it.

Karen turned back to Pete, who was staring at her intently. “Pete—”

“We need to go,” he said. 


End file.
